Trust in That
by Tamer Lorika
Summary: Matthew is an overlooked senior at an boarding school, who fell in love with a former student - who is now teaching French! Francis is having trouble in translation... FrancexCanada School AU. Rated M for Omake. Writen for Secret Santa @ Livejournal
1. Chapter 1

This was written for the Secret Santa Exchange Livejournal! I really hope you like it; its pretty long.

SLIGHT mentions of PruCan and Ameranada (but its not! So don't worry!)

Anyway, main story is probably T or T+, and the omake is definitely M. Yay… can I write anything NOT dirty? ... Gomenasai! Please tell me how to improve!

* * *

Matthew had been sat on at lunch. Again.

This, in itself, wasn't particularly surprising. Even though he tried to stay out of everyone's way, he would inevitably be mistaken for a chair or an empty spot and sat on – spilled on – tripped over. Whatever. He was used to it, or at least, that is what he told himself.

But today hadn't exactly been what Matthew would call a "good day".

It had started in first period, of course. He'd been sitting in the back of his chemistry class, doodling on his hands and wrists as he waited for Mr. Weillschmidt to pass out the exams, when he saw the teacher come down the aisle, handing out papers as he went, before stopping directly in front of Matt's desk. Matt wondered if he would be skipped over. Again. But that wasn't the case.

"Hey, Williams!" the albino teacher had barked. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Matt looked up from the doodles of swirls on his hands. "Eh?" He had _never_ been called on in this class before.

"What're you writing on your arms? Are you cheating?" The entire class – the _entire class_ turned around to stare. Even the loud Korean kid in the front row. Even the murderous-looking girl from somewhere like Belarussia or something had turned around. Everyone.

Matt's brain froze. He was not used to being the object of anyone's attention and he simply _could not deal with this _so he froze as Mr. Weillshcmidt continued to accuse.

"Williams, cheating is so not awesome and I can't believe that you're being not awesome, especially _you_, you're so quiet usually! What the hell, Williams, I'm gonna have to give you a zero on the test."

And then the teacher stalked back up to his desk and Matt looked down at his hands and for the rest of the period people snuck glances at the cheater. Matt did not cry. They were still staring at him, and he would not cry with people watching. And he had now failed his chemistry class. Shit. Why were they all looking at him? Why? He just wanted to disappear. Being invisible was okay!

But the day had not brightened from there.

Second period was a pop quiz in precalculus.

Third was the assignment of a book report that would be worth half his grade - on _Anna Karinena_ of all books. was one sadistic teacher.

Fourth was gym. Field hockey! So maybe his day _would_ get better after all –

But apparently, Matt was back to being invisible, because no one picked him for a team.

By lunchtime, Matt was seriously contemplating ditching. It would be hell if he got caught, but , hey, it wasn't like he'd be kicked out of the boarding school – or even caught at all, probably. Still musing if he could pull off such a bold move, he found a secluded place on the school lawn to sit down with his lunch tray. He was about to bite into his fish sandwich – who in the world decided that it was smart to put fish in a sandwich? –when someone, giggling, attempted to sit down on Matt's lap.

Oh, God, it was _Alfred_.

Yeah, being sat on by your twin brother, dragging along his new boyfriend, an asshole English kid who had bullied you for _years_, is not a particularly pleasant experience, especially when said brother gives you a dirty look when he stands up, as if you are interrupting something.

"Hey! Oh. Matt. Sorry. Didn't notice you there. Come on Arthur, let's go somewhere else."

Yeah. Matt was gonna ditch the rest of the day.

But then the bell rang for the end of lunch. Crud, he couldn't leave now, the teachers would be on patrol, on their way to their classrooms. And besides… he probably wouldn't have had the guts to do it, anyway. He'd just have to stick out the rest of the day - only one period left to go. So, he cleaned up the crumbs that Alfred had knocked into his lap, and threw the rest of his lunch in the garbage. He wasn't hungry, anyway.

"Hey, Mattie, hurry up!"

The sound danced across the quad. For perhaps the first time all day, Matt cracked the very smallest smile. It was Yakaterina, or Katyusha, as everyone called her, the Ukrainian exchange student. She was one of his few friends at the school, and never ceased her efforts to take care of him. She was such a _mother_ figure.

"Hi, Katy. I'm coming." he replied, gathering his books and following the Ukrainian back into the school building. They had their last class right next to each other. Hers was Russian literature, his was French Language.

Katyusha gave him a smile, slowing her pace a little to keep up with him. "You look a little down," she observed. "What's wrong?"

Ah. He was hoping that he wouldn't have to think about it for awhile. Maybe the whole day would just go away if he ignored it. Instead, he plastered on his smile and tried to sound cheerful. "Nothing, Katy. Think I failed a test. That's all, eh."

Understatement of the year, but Katyusha took it at face value, nodding her head sympathetically. And then they were in front of Matt's classroom, blocking the way for stragglers and taunting the late bell with every moment wasted, and Matt knew he had to go inside.

"See ya later, Katy," he said, giving her a little wave before ducking inside. He didn't feel like much more cheerfulness. He felt like crying, actually. God, this day sucked. He just wanted to curl up with a batch of pancakes and his pet polar bear in his dorm and hope to the highest that Alfred, who also happened to be his roommate, would stay out all night with that stupid Arthur kid so that he could mope in peace.

And then he remembered _exactly whose class_ he was sitting in and realized it would have been much better to ditch class than deal with _this_ on top of everything else. Right on cue – half a minute after the late bell rang – Monsieur Bonnefoy waltzed gaily (no, not a figure of speech) into the room.

"Bonjour mes étudiants. J'espère que votre déjeuner était agréable"

Monsieur Bonnefoy was not the regular teacher for the class; he wasn't even a certified student teacher yet, just some undergrad from the nearby university that was stepping in for a teacher that was too old or too lazy to come in; Matt wasn't sure what the story was, and he frankly did not care. All that he could think about was _Francis_.

No, not Francis. Monsieur Bonnefoy.

When Matt was a freshman – Maple! Was it four years ago, already? – Francis had been a senior. A grand, gorgeous, unreachable senior who spoke as he liked and taunted the teachers and flirted with everyone, even poor, impressionable freshmen.

But it still, somehow, felt special when Francis had leaned over to his chair in French Culinary club and complimented Matt's shirt or ran a hand through his hair and _smiled_, smiled the way that Matt was sure was for no one else but him. But that was stupid. Matt was a completely invisible freshman, and Francis was so beautiful and he acted like that with everyone, but it was just so nice to be noticed. It would make anyone lovestruck. Anyone. In any case, Francis had graduated at the end of that year and gone off to uni, never to grace Matt's vision again except for in occasional troubling, embarrassing dreams.

Until this year. When the regular French teacher decided to go MIA and jet-setting Francis had wormed his way into the job. And now, every day, right after lunch, Matt had to endure an hour of the man. An hour of flashing smiles and velvet laughter and a way of asking for an answer like he truly _cared_ if you knew. Matt could barely stand being in the class for too long, listening to the wine-rich tones of the Frenchman's voice, flushing every time his name was called.

"Matthieu… Matthieu! Mon cher, are you with us?"

Matt looked up with a start, only to find a gleaming pair of utterly concerned ice-blue eyes entirely too close to his face. Francis was practically leaning over his desk, staring at the blushing Canadian with an…_anxious_ expression? Matt was usually pretty good at reading moods, but he wasn't so sure when it came to his teacher. There was just so much he didn't understand.

"Mon ange, do you need to go to the nurse's office? You look quite flushed."

"E-eh!" Matthew stuttered. "N-no! I mean, non, non, je suis bien, I'm fine." No one else in the class seemed to be staring at him, thank God, but the attention from Francis alone was enough to send Matthew into near- unconsciousness. He felt his brain overloading with the stress of the day and felt like he had a fever. This was bad. It was just, Francis' eyes were so blue and clear and beautiful and his smile was absolutely addicting and maybe Matt could just stare at Francis and get away with it. And sure enough, Francis turned away- although it almost seemed reluctant (but now Matt was just being ridiculous; it was his imagination that always got him into trouble!)- and began the lesson.

"Today," he announced, "we will practice writing in the formal style, by composing letters." Most of the class let out an appreciative sigh. Everyone preferred written assignments over oral ones, especially Matt – if he was heard at all, it would inevitably end in someone making fun of his accent.

"But who will we be writing to?" asked a small, pig-tailed girl in the front. Matt didn't remember her name, only that she was from an island chain called the Seychelles – and he only remembered _that_ because it was a more foreign word than he was used to hearing, even at his international high school.

"Right now, it is just a practice run, for you to begin to understand style and form. You can write letters to whomever you wish; Monday I'll assign you something for real."

Translation: today was only a practice round and no one really had to give a crap about what they wrote. The class kept quiet under the absolutely _smouldering_ gaze of their student teacher, but no one really put a lot of effort into their pieces.

"Psst, Matt, who're you writing to?" Whispered Estevan, Matt's other…friend. The kid, whose parents apparently had shipped him here from Cuba, often mistook him for Alfred, but he was pretty nice. Even if he could be loud. And violent. And annoying.

"Er…dunno," mumbled Matt. "What about you?"

"Mmm… Bonnefoy won't read these, right? I might just write mine to that cute chica from the Seychelles in the front row" responded Estevan, looking dreamy. "A love letter. What's sexier than a love letter in French?"

What… a love letter. Matt was tempted. He suddenly imagined shyly pressing a note into Francis' warm hands, watching his startled face as he read the note, a romantic confession that expressed Matt's feelings in a way no other language could. It would be perfect.

"That's so stupid…" muttered Matt, swatting his vision away.

"No, it's not!" retorted Estevan, thinking Matt was still talking to him. "Just you wait; she'll be dating me before the week's out." And with that he was writing furiously on his notepad.

And Matt stared down at the blank sheet in front of him.

A love letter sounded almost do-able. Matt knew that he'd never be able to confess his feelings to his teacher but with every day that passed, the feelings grew stronger. It wasn't just Francis' physical attractions, either (though those were ridiculously accentuated); Matt had known Francis, at least from afar, for years. He knew, through process of osmosis, that Francis was fun, had a great sense of humor, and a strange morality and loyalty, even if he _was_ the world's hugest flirt. Matt knew that he'd never leave a friend in a pinch, and he wasn't one to lie (though scheming was a different matter altogether). Francis was…wonderful. Matt wished that he himself wasn't such a coward; he had just turned eighteen, why couldn't he express his feelings out loud? Yet, a letter wasn't so much worse. He could write a letter, leave it where Francis could find it; maybe he'd even sign it. Matt could _do_ that. So he began to write.

_Francis,Pendant longtemps, je voulais te dire quelque chose, mais je n'avais jamais le courage..._

The period passed in a daze. Before Matt knew it, the hour was up and he had a full piece of notebook paper in front of him. It wasn't a long letter at all, a simple confession, telling Francis how he felt about the man, about what he loved and how it was hard for him to be ignored so often. So… it ended I don't expect you to return my feelings, only to know the way that I feel about you. I don't want ambiguity between us. Because I really care about you, Francis. Please tell me if you return the sentiment.

Matt signed the letter. Looked at it, read it over, and promptly shoved it in his notebook. There was NO WAY that he'd ever actually give this to Francis! And with that, he lost all of his courage and started to gather his books into a pile.

"Matt!" yelled Estevan. "Here, here, take it! Read it and tell me what you think! Should I give this to her? That Seychelles girl?" The teen pushed the books out of Matt's arms in an effort to force a letter into his grip. Notebooks and papers fluttered to the floor.

"Oops… sorry Mattie!"

Matt looked down at the mess that his papers were in. Some had even managed to slide all the way across the room. If he thought this day couldn't suck any more…

"I'll clean them up…" said Estevan quickly, bending down and starting to shove random papers into a textbook. Matt realized he'd probably cause more harm than help.

"Non, non," he mumbled. "Don't worry about it. Just go and give that letter to the girl. She's getting away."

Estevan didn't need to be told twice. "You're right! Uh… Sorry, Matt!" he yelled, springing to his feet and running off after the pig-tailed girl.

Matt waved half-heartedly after him, then bent to retrieve his papers, trying to hold back tears. It wasn't as if this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but on top of everything else, it made him a little sick to his stomach.

Suddenly a warm, familiar hand brushed his. Matt looked up into a pair of fiery blue eyes.

"Mon cher, let me assist you with these papers," purred Francis, already beginning to gather books into a neat pile. Matt blinked, mind going white and fuzzy. Francis was right next to him, helping him pick up his books. The blonde teen attempted to stutter out a reply, a thank-you, anything.

"Eh, t-thanks Fran- Monsieur B-bonnefoy, you don't need to –"

"Non, " interrupted the young man, smiling in a completely melting way, "it's not a problem. And won't you call me Francis? I am not that old at all, and besides, did we not used to be in school together, when you were a freshman?"

Matt swallowed. "You remember that?"

Francis' smile widened. "But of course, cher. I will always remember you, Matthieu."

Matt's mind went pink and red and his face rushed, hot, and he ducked his head to hide the blistering blush, snatching his now-neat pile of books off the floor and rushing out the door. "S-see you tomorrow, Mon- eh, Francis!"

He needed ice cream and he needed it now.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis sighed, watching as the Canadian hurried out the door, trying not to let his gaze linger on the lines of his pants...

Would he ever be able to tell Matthieu how he felt?

"You are amazingly _stupide_ " he murmured to himself. He was. How long had he been an unscrupulous flirt? It had never mattered to him before, whether his affections were returned. But little Matthieu seemed to be breaking all of Francis's rules. Such as the rule never to get quite so involved.

It was physically hard for him to teach, these days, to tear his attention away from the little blond in the third row; the way he twirled his hair absentmindedly, drew on his hand s when he was bored, chewed on his lip constantly, constantly! It was enough to drive one mad. He had always been this appealing, even as a freshman, but Francis was hesitant. The feelings that stirred in him around Matthieu were so different from the familiar rush of lust and desire he had felt on all of his other conquests. He felt protective. Concerned. He still lusted, oh yes, but he wanted, more than anything, for Matthieu to be happy.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" announced Gilbert, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.

Francis realized that he was still kneeling on the floor, where he had been assisting his student earlier. He quickly rose to his feet, trying to affix his trademark oozing grin to his face before he turned to his friend. As he stood, he noted a stray piece of paper on the floor, and pocketed it, making a mental note to give it back to Matthieu later.

"Ah, _Mr. Weillschmidt_," he teased. "So good of you to join me."

Gilbert's mouth quirked up in a smile. He and the Spanish/ Home Economics teacher at the school , Antonio Carriedo, had befriended Francis in his first weeks at the school.

"I saw you totally molesting that Canadian kid with your eyes," announced Gilbert, slapping Francis playfully on the back. Francis attempted a smile.

"Eh, non, you must be mistaken, I was not –"

"Oh, stop trying to deny it; I'm too awesome to be fooled."

"But that is not appropriate, and –"

Gilbert snorted irreverently. "Since when have you been worried about propriety, bro? We're almost the same age, and I know you can't be going all responsible-adult on me. Besides, you know that Antonio is sexing up one of the Vargas twins in his spare time."

Francis sighed, knowing when he was beat. "I do not think that Matthieu would be … receptive to my advances," he admitted.

Gilbert looked at him in disbelief. "Dude, _I_ would make out with you; that pipsqueak doesn't stand a chance."

"It's not that simple…"

"Sure it is. Just call him into your office, pull out some of your 'moves' and he'll be melting into your hands. Kids love the whole 'sexy teacher' bit."

"Please stop calling him a kid. He's eighteen."

Gilbert slapped Francis' back again. "See? You got nothing to worry about." He sauntered out of the room, sashaying his hips suggestively. "Just go for it. I'll tell Matt that you want him. In your office, I mean." And with an unholy cackle, he was gone.

Francis stared after him, not quite sure what he had gotten himself into. But he was _French_ for goodness sakes! If he could not handle a shy Canadian, what kind of flirt was he?

He sat at his desk, trying to compose himself. He knew just what moves to put on Matt, too, things that he had wanted to do for so long… He would be sitting on his desk, he thought. As the idea played out in his mind, he attempted to emulate it, perching on the corner and arranging himself so that his shirt was just ever so tantalizingly undone. Yes, that was it. He'd beckon Matt over; the boy would be nervous, biting down gently on those delicious lips. So he'd speak softly.

"Matthieu…" he would breathe, "you've been very, very naughty…"

Francis almost slammed his head into his desk. What the fuck was he _thinking?_ With anyone else, he wouldn't have a doubt in the world at his abilities, but now… none of his regular tricks seemed right. He couldn't just sweep the boy off his feet; it would probably just distress him, and the thought made Francis a little sick. He didn't want to make Matthieu unhappy.

"Mon dieu, I cannot do this!" Francis murmured, burying his face in his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. One of his elbows brushed the paper in his pocket, the one he had picked up from the floor. Oh. He had forgotten about that. Pulling it out of his pocket, he sighed. He could just return it to Matthieu and send him back to his dorm; that's what he _ought_ to do. He absentmindedly unfolded the paper, and caught the tell-tale swoop of French across the page.

_Francis...__it read. _Then the Canadian walked through the door.


	3. Chapter 3

After school, Matthew found himself on the dorm room's small couch, nursing a large carton of maple-flavoured ice cream that he had been saving for a special occasion, before this emergency had shown up. There was not a lot of furniture other in the room save the couch on which he was sitting – two beds, two desks and chairs, two dressers, a low refrigerator, a small closet and the door to a private bathroom. Nothing else.

Matt had his bulky, oversized walkman earphones on, listening to a mix CD of depressing indie rock. God, he was pathetic, but even that realization did not make him particularly wont to remedy his pathetic-ness. He was just too exhausted.

"Why do I get myself into situations like this?" he asked his small pet polar bear (the one he was smuggling into the school. But that is a whole other story). The bear cocked its head and stared at him in confusion, simultaneously dipping his paw into the melting carton of ice cream.

"Who?" the bear's eyes seemed to ask.

Matt just sighed. He wasn't in the mood to deal with this. At least Alfred wasn't here to make him feel even worse. Slowly, fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn't check them. Sometimes it was okay to cry, if it made him feel better, if there was no one watching. Kumikuro didn't count.

A knock came at the door.

"Shit," Matt sniffled, wiping roughly at his eyes with the oversized red sweatshirt that he had thrown over his school uniform. It was Alfred, he could tell by the undaunted intensity of the knocking.

"C-come in," he wavered, trying to calm himself. He should never have let his guard down; whenever he did he was always discovered and hurt!

The door squealed open, but it wasn't Alfred; it was his Chemistry teacher, Mr. Weillschmidt. Matthew yelped and sat up, trying to hide his tears, his polar bear, his disheveled appearance.

Gilbert, meanwhile, hadn't expected Matthew to be the same kid that he had busted in his first period for cheating on his test. In fact, he had completely forgotten the incident until just now. He stared into the glowing blue eyes of the young man and was struck by just how damn cute the kid looked. Shit! If Francis didn't have first dibs on him, then Gilbert himself was pretty tempted to try putting some moves on the kid himself. Maybe he would, if Francis ever dropped the ball.

"M-Mr. W—Weillschmidt!" stuttered Matt, realizing that the teacher most likely wanted to punish him for the incident this morning. No, not on top of everything else! "Umm – I'm so sorry about class today, please don't say you're going to expel me! I wasn't cheating, really I was just-"

"Hey, hey, back up!" cried Gilbert, holding up his hands. "I'm not here about that. I just wanted to tell you that Fr … Mr. Bonnefoy wanted to see you in his office."

Matt blushed at his mistake. Oh, yeah thought Gilbert, watching the faint brush of rose on white, smooth skin.

That kid was totally hot.

"S-sorry. I'll go see him right away!" said Matthew, trying to force his teacher out the door as he was leaving; he wasn't sure if Kumojiko was poking out from where he had stashed him under the couch, but he didn't want Mr. Weillschmidt to take him away. After closing the door - wishing it locked, but the students were never allowed that much controll - he hurried down the hall, suddenly nervous. Francis? Had wanted him? For what? It was probably a mistake; he had probably wanted someone else.

He rounded the corner, walking into the now-empty French classroom in time to see Francis' eyes skimming a rather familiar piece of notebook paper. His paper. His love letter.

Matt gasped in shock as Francis looked up, an intense and frightening and utterly indefinable emotion flickering in his ice blue eyes. The blonde man rose to his feet, fixing Matt with a stare so full of feeling that Matt felt like he was drowning. He was caught, as effectively as if Francis had grabbed his wrists or his shoulders. He couldn't move.

"Matthieu…" Francis breathed, now only inches from the Canadian's face. Matt could feel the feathery touch of his breath, scented of wintergreen and spice of the strong French mints the man kept in his pockets. Matt's lips burned with a sudden greed, a desire that took over his mind. He wanted this so badly. He wanted Francis.

And Francis himself was reeling. Matt… loved him? It was as if someone had heard his harried, ragged prayers for Matt's attention, and gifted him with this letter that told his affection so plainly. He did not have to worry if Matt loved him back; he just knew.

And so he leaned in to brush his lips along Matthew's own.

Matt jerked away.

Matt had seen the letter in Francis' fist and the look in his eyes and had a feeling he knew what he saw there. Pity. It must have been pity. It must have been some kind of sympathy for a poor, mixed up kid because he knew himself and he knew there was no way anyone could ever love him and he just knew that Francis was going to tell him "no". Even when Francis leaned in to kiss him his brain screamed that Francis did not mean it, did not mean a kiss more than to say "I'm sorry" and Matt did not want to hear that, did not want to hear it at all so he jerked away and, eyes burning, searched Francis' face.

"You don't really mean it…" he murmured, and then spun and ran away, leaving Francis alone to stare after him and wonder what the fuck that he had done wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred did not return to his dorm room until after midnight, having spent a rather … pleasurable… evening on Arthur's couch while Arthur's roommate, Ludwig, had been at some scream-metal concert that he had apparently snuck out for. Alfred was now glowing in his own satisfaction as he carelessly shoved open his bedroom door, expecting the lights to be off and his brother to be asleep. And Matt _was_ asleep, but the lights were on, allowing Alfred to see something that caused the panic switch to turn on.

Matt sprawled on the couch, his hands covered in black swirls of ink – penstrokes that created words and pictures and forests of ebony. The glyphs stretched to the crease of his elbows, where his bulky sweatshirt sleeves had been shoved up to. This was bad.

Some kids had problems with substances, drugs, alcohol, the whole shebang, and that's how they dealt with life. Alfred's friend Yong Soo sometimes cut himself. Ludwig rocked out to heavy metal. Everyone has an escape route. Alfred's had been sex with Arthur. And Matt's was drawing on his skin. Sometimes, when Matt had been having a bad day, Alfred would catch glimpses of words on his wrists, words like "invisible" and "help". But for the words to have gotten this far, something major must have happened. And no matter how much Alfred mercilessly teased and taunted his brother, damn, right now he was seriously worried.

"Hey, Mattie, wake up," he said quietly, sitting beside his brother on the couch and shaking his shoulder. Matthew woke with a start, twitching violently before realizing where he was. Alfred glimpsed tear tracks on his cheeks before Matt managed to scrub them away.

"Alfred! You're back!" Matt exclaimed. "What's going on; is there something wrong?"

"I should be asking _you_ that," Alfred murmured. He pointed to Matt's ink-stained forearms. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Matt blushed, jerking his sleeves down to cover the marks. It didn't help; the pictures spilled over the back of his hands, staining his fingertips. "?" The reply came out all in one breath as he desperately tried to change the subject.

"Matt," said Alfred, taking the teen's chin in his fingertips and forcing their eyes to meet. Immediately Matt's lids clenched shut.

"He tried to kiss me and I know he doesn't mean it all he wants to do is say goodbye but I love him so much that I think that it's starting to hurt."

Alfred blinked.

Paused.

"W…who kissed you?" asked Alfred, voice suddenly hard.

Matt bit his lip, wishing that he hadn't said anything, but he couldn't stay quiet any longer. "N-no one, never mind, I didn't –"

Alfred had always been stronger, always been taller, and at his moment he used that advantage against Matt, shoving him down and pinning him to the couch. "_Who?_" Alfred demanded and Matt let out a gasp as Alfred pressed their foreheads together.

But Alfred knew the answer to his question, had known it all along, too, known it since he first saw the glow on Matt's face after the then-senior had first asked his name in back in freshman French Culinary Club. "Francis," he growled, pressing his nose against Matt's neck.

"A-alfred, what're you-"

"It's him isn't it?"

"…yes…but, Alfred, what- "

"_No,_" Alfred captured Matt's lips in a rough, bruising kiss, then jerked away with choked sound. "Matt, you can't, he's going to break your heart! He… I know him, for God's sakes, he's your teacher, he's a slut, I've seen him making eyes at half the staff here, Matt, you _can't_."

"Alfred!" Matt's hands slammed against his brother's chest, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge him. "What are you talking about?"

"He doesn't love you, Matt." The unspoken end to that sentence was _And I do_.

"I know!" sobbed Matthew, suddenly going limp, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and he just didn't care anymore. He knew it all. He knew that Francis was so unreachable and so beautiful and he never had a chance, and he knew without a doubt that Alfred…

Alfred stood up. Backed off. Realized exactly what he had said and regretted it with all his heart _shit_. Matt did not react as Alfred retreated to his bed; the only sound in the room was of Matt's sobs as he buried his head in his sleeves. _He doesn't love me, he doesn't love me, and I know that you do but it doesn't matter because you have Arthur and_ _I have no one and I never will._

And even though Alfred knew all the hurt he had caused he couldn't bring himself to utter a word. Partially, it was because he knew that nothing, nothing he could say could ever _un_say the words that hung in the air. And partially it was because he knew that he was right. Francis had just broken his twin brother's heart; it wasn't as if Alfred had walked in here and started this mess by himself. He had seen the ink on Mattie's wrists. Mattie had been hurting before, because Francis had kissed him and had not meant it, not one bit, or at least that is what he had gathered from what Matt had said.

Alfred fell into bed with his clothes on and didn't move until he fell asleep, Matt's sobs ringing in his ears


	5. Chapter 5

Gilbert waited until two in the morning to check on Francis, dragging Antonio with him. They had agreed that two in the morning was definitely the best time to visit Francis, giving him ample time to "put the moves on" his little Canadian.

"After all, we don't want to cramp his style," pointed out Gilbert.

Antonio had nodded dreamily, probably fantasizing about the little Italian kid that he was _still fucking chasing_, God, could the Spaniard be any slower?

So now, when even the hall monitors were napping in some forgotten corner, Antonio and Gilbert had snuck down the teacher's residence hall to Francis' room. They might have remembered that teachers technically had no fixed curfew, but they had once been students here as well, and old habits die hard. Quietly, Antonio rapped at the door. When no answer was forthcoming, Gilbert shoved the man out of the way and _banged_ the door heavily. The sound shattered the otherwise silent hallway and he heard Professor Wang yell something profane in Chinese through his closed door. But Francis still did not reply.

Antonio and Gilbert exchanged glances, then Antonio pulled a bobby-pin out of his unruly curls and proceeded to pick the lock. Francis was sure to be in his room, and they would break their way in, privacy be damned. That was what it meant to be friends, after all.

Sure enough, Francis was in the room. In the dark. On the floor, with an open wine bottle in his hand. Humming something that sounded like depressing indie rock. He looked up blearily as the comparatively-bright light from the hallway flooded into his room, blinking owlishly at the figures outlined in his doorway. Again, Antonio and Gilbert exchanged glances, then stepped in the door, closing it behind them and flicking on the room's lights.

Francis squealed and threw an arm over his face.

"Non, non. je n'aime pas la lumière, il me fait mal! Si vous voulez faire quelque chose, achetez-moi plus de vin..."

"Up and at 'em, champ," said Gilbert, ignoring the rapid-fire flow of French and grabbing Francis' forearm. Antonio pried the bottle from the drunk blonde as Gilbert hauled him to his feet.

"Didn't go well, huh?" asked Antonio, giving a sympathetic wince.

"Did not go well?!" echoed Francis, lurching on his feet. Gilbert struggled to keep him upright. "It was a disaster! I thought…I thought… I was sure that he loved me! La lettre, la lettre!"

Antonio knew enough French (although it didn't take a genius to translate this one) to understand what Francis was saying.

"'The letter'? What are you on about?"

Francis quickly produced a crumpled piece of notepaper from somewhere in the vicinity of his pants, although he didn't actually have any pockets. Gilbert grabbed the notepaper, accidentally dropping Francis' arm in the process. Without the German man's support, Francis sunk to the floor again, a despondent look on his face. His two friends ignored him, clustering around the letter.

Gilbert stared at it, then turned it on its side. Then upside down. Then he growled. "I can't read this stinking thing!"

"It's in _French,_" pointed out Antonio.

"I don't _speak_ French, you idiot!" retorted Gilbert.

"It is a love letter," said Francis desolately from the floor. "It is from Matthieu. But when I tried to kiss him, he pulled away and told me I did not mean it. Did not mean it? I never meant anything more in my life!" Francis' head fell melodramatically into his hands.

Antonio sank to the floor to sling an arm around the Frenchman's shoulder. "Yeah, we know, we know."

"The kid's gonna know it, too," chimed in Gilbert, sitting on Francis' other side.

"I don't think that he will! He is so sure that I do not love him!"

"I think it's pretty clear what is going on," asserted Antonio. "Something similar happened with my little Romano in the beginning. Matt just has low self-esteem, I bet, he seems like a quiet kid. He's probably afraid that the letter was what convinced you to kiss him, not any real feelings. He thinks that you pity him, not love him. He just doesn't trust you." Which was _exactly _the truth of the matter, but Antonio had no way of knowing that!

"He doesn't trust me? But... but what can I do about that?!" demanded Francis loudly, reaching again for his wine bottle, which was perched on the bedside table above his head. Antonio gleefully slid the bottle out of his reach, and Francis tried to stand to get at it, but he began to weave and swerve, and ended up falling flat on his face. Gilbert guffawed.

"Not much you _can_ do, huh?" said Antonio too-brightly. "You just have to wait. Show him that you love him, and that you always will. You know, you're quite a player; you don't normally inspire that much confidence in your fidelity. You might want to tone down the random molesting a little, you know?" Francis nodded. He hadn't really been in the mood for molesting in quite awhile, anyway.

"Ah… that is good advice…" murmured Francis.

"Of course it is. It is awesome advice. Because we thought of it!"

"_I_ thought of it," corrected Antonio.

"Whatever."

"Listen, tomorrow is Saturday. You guys don't have classes or anything; take some time to cool off. You can see Matt again on Monday, and try to show him that you are serious," suggested Antonio. "In the meantime, we're not letting you hog the wine!"

Francis had a pretty bad group of friends. He wouldn't have it any other way.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Why don't I have a name for Seychelles??? *sigh* Anyway, I'm glad you stuck with me this far. Are you liking it? Gosh dangit, I hope so.**

Monday found Francis sweating nervously in the empty classroom as he waited anxiously for lunch to end and Matt's class to file into the room. He fought the urge to smack his head against the blackboard. He was French. French! He would not let the matters of _amor_ get him so hot and bothered! He tried to calm his breathing as he watched the clock anxiously.

Would Matt ignore him, or pretend that nothing had happened? That would be…unbearable. Things had changed, it was obvious that things had changed and if no one acknowledged that, things would not just go back to the way that they used to be. Besides, Francis wanted closure. He wanted Matthieu, and he wanted Matthieu to know how he felt.

The lunch bell rang and Francis jumped three feet in the air. "Mon dieu!" he cried, startled.

Before he could recover sufficiently from his surprise, two of his students banged in the door. The first was the cute pig-tailed girl from the Seychelles. He had completely forgotten her name, but she did not seem particularly adverse when he referred to her by her place of birth. She was looking flushed and angry, and was being pursued by a confused looking Cuban boy – Estevan, if Francis remembered correctly.

Seychelles – ah, he couldn't be bothered to remember her name right now – flounced into her seat in the front row and glared scathingly at Estevan. "For the last time, I am not interested in a 'hot Cuban romance' as you so eloquently put it, so if you will please back off -!"

Estevan tried to meet her gaze, but she turned her head away with a pout.

"No, no, I just meant that if you went out with me –"

"I have no intention of going out with you! Monsieur Bonnefoy!" the girl addressed Francis suddenly. "Can you please help me?! He had been stalking me all day!"

Francis did not want to get involved. _Really_ did not want to get involved. By this time, the other students were slowly starting to file in from their lunch period, and Francis kept half an eye out for the small Canadian as he attempted to referee.

"Now, now, I'm sure that we can work this out if we can just speak calmly; ah, Estevan, do please explain what is going on."

The Cuban pouted almost as much as his object of affection had. "I was trying to tell her that I loved her; I even wrote her a love letter in class!" A love letter… Francis sighed, having had more than enough of letters for a long while. His eyes swept the doorway as the boy talked, looking for Matt. The period was almost about to start, but then again, Matt could be running late…

"It was not a _love_ letter, it was a lust letter you perv! No one mentions steamy nights at the beach in a _love _letter!"

"They don't? What kind of remiss lovers have been courting _you_?"

"Monsieur!" demanded Seychelles, tugging on Francis' sleeve. "Do you see?"

At that moment the late bell rang. Matthieu had still not made it in the room. Francis deflated, knowing that he would not be in class today and yet still hoping that somehow he would waltz in late. But that just wasn't Matthieu. Was the Canadian avoiding him?

"Ah… Estevan, go to your seat, I am going to start class," said Francis absently, drawing a hand through his hair.

Seychelles looked less than satisfied by the lack of punishment, but Francis did not give her time to protest. "Class!" he said, clapping his hands. "You remember I told you that today you will be writing letters? It is an in-class test."

The room let out a concerted groan. Francis ignored them. He did _not_ feel like teaching today.

"You will be writing thank-you notes to your favorite teacher. You have the rest of the class period to finish your task." The class stared blankly at him for a moment, then erupted in a flurry of activity as paper and pens were pulled out and scribbles began to flow onto notepads.

Francis sank into his chair, massaging his temples. Matthieu must be avoiding him. That was the only explanation, wasn't it? Unless… unless he was sick? Was his Matthieu (_his? When did he began to think of the Canadian as his?_) ill? Francis did not know why the idea made his heart clench painfully. He just wanted the day to be over; he would go and find Matt himself. This game of cat-and-mouse was tiring, it was painful. He just had to get everything out in the open.

And so he waited impatiently for the end-of-day bell to ring. And waited. And waited. Francis began drumming his fingers on his desk, but quickly stopped when the repetitive noise began to annoy him. It reminded him of the relentlessly slow tick of the clock. He pulled out a few month-old tests, intending to distract himself with grading, but unfortunately the first on the top of the pile was Matthieu's. Francis shoved them away and laid his head on his desk. Merde… merde… he couldn't relax, couldn't focus… Finally, when Francis felt as if he were going to crawl out of his very skin, fate took pity on him and the bell rang. Francis leapt to his feet, quickly gathering his papers and preparing to run out the door. And then Seychelles banged her way up to his desk.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy!" demanded the girl, shoving a yellow piece of legal paper into his face. "_Look_ what that pervert wrote to me this time! We're supposed to be writing to teachers!"

The paper so close to Francis that his eyes crossed when he attempted to read it, but he was able to make out some broken French phrases that did, indeed, seem on the dangerous side of perverted.

"Estevan?" queried Francis wearily, as the Cuban shuffled guiltily up to his desk. This day was not turning out very well.


	7. Chapter 7

Gilbert was on his way to make sure that Francis had not committed suicide. He was fairly certain that things had not gone well with Matt; he just had a sixth sense about things. Those two just seemed destined for failure, at least that's what he thought (And he was too awesome to be wrong about this stuff! Anyone who said that he needed to learn to "read the atmosphere" or whatever just didn't understand his awesomeness).

As soon as the bell rang, he left his classroom and jogged down the hallway, circumventing the crowded halls of the science classroom wing by climbing the stairs and going through the senior dorms. Thankfully, these halls were almost deserted; at least, Gilbert thought so, until something large and heavy barreled into him, knocking him straight onto his ass.

It was a kid. A student. One who looked like that cute Canadian kid, but for some reason he got the feeling that they were separate people. The kid didn't even look back at Gilbert, but called behind him. "Sorry, man! I got an emergency!" And then he disappeared down the hallway.

"Fucking bastard!" Gilbert called after him good-naturedly. That kid packed quite a punch; Gilbert was awed despite himself. He wondered vaguely who the kid was and where he was going in such a hurry. Then he picked himself up, noting the room where the bulldozing kid had come from. Hey, that was the Cute Canadian's room. Giving into wild impulse, Gilbert pushed wide the half-open door and walked in.


	8. Chapter 8

Matt hadn't slept that weekend. He had tried, but every time he closed his eyes… the feel. The feeling of the Frenchman's lips as they gently brushed his own, the scent of his breath, so soft and almost not there on his skin. The deep ache of desire; he wanted him so bad and he was never, never going to get him. The memory of that afternoon had stayed with him throughout the night.

The thing that Matt hated the most about his body was that when he did not get enough sleep, something happened. His internal circuits didn't rebel, the screamed in his head and his temples began to pound and a migrane sprang up and there was nothing that he could do about it. Saturday morning, he had felt the familiar deep thrum that signaled his body's resistance. So he tried to sleep that evening, but tried too hard; rest was impossible and the next morning the headache had set in full force, keeping him awake Sunday night as well and by Monday morning Matt knew that he would be unable to go to class. Though it was not as if he wanted to see Francis anyway.

Alfred had mostly stayed out of his hair that weekend, flitting in and out to get him asprin or water but mostly holing up at Arthur's place, Matt assumed. He didn't much care, really. He hurt in his head and in his chest and the pain distracted him from much else.

At least by Monday afternoon he was feeling better; after so long with a sustained headache maybe he was just becoming insensitive to the pain or maybe the asprin was beginning to do its work, but he felt good enough to stand up and look at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Maple, but he was a mess.

He hadn't washed the ink off his arms and it had smeared on his skin, on his sweatshirt, streaking iridescent swirls across his face where he had rubbed at his cheeks. His hair was a complete rat's nest, and his eyes were red-rimmed and streaky. He needed to clean himself up, at least for Alfred's sake; he knew that he was scaring the crap out of his brother.

He turned on the hot water full blast and forced his forearm under the steaming faucet, biting back a gasp of pain as the water hit his skin. It felt good. He scrubbed and scrubbed, forgetting about soap, just rubbing until his arm was raw and numb and clean and then shoving the other arm under and treating it the same way. He didn't notice that Alfred was standing in the bathroom doorway, back from the day's classes, and so he didn't notice when Alfred stormed out and down the hallway, fury scratching his features. Matt didn't notice anything, until he came out of the bathroom, eyes bright and wet but skin clear and unblemished.

He stumbled blearily out of the bathroom and then saw Gilbert in the doorway.

Gilbert stared back, taking in everything, everything at once. The boy's flushed face, cheeks wet and glistening from tears and steam and the way that he bit his full, red lower lip at the sight of the man in his room and his thin, slim hips and his trembling shoulders as Gilbert advanced on him with a determined look in his eyes. After all, if the Canadian was in this state, Francis had pretty much fucked up his chance. It was Gilbert's turn to try to… comfort the boy, eh?

"M-Mr. Weillschmidt?" quavered Matt, backing up. There was a spark in the German man's eyes, one that scared him, badly. It reminded him of the look that Alfred had given him, when he was pinned to the couch, but this time was feral, no hint of loving or protective emotion visible. It was a look of a conqueror out for a kingdom.

"Yeah….Williams…?" The name was drawn out, breathed heavily as Gilbert's eyes hooded and he advanced on the Canadian. Matt slid back, trying to stay out of reach, suddenly understanding that Gilbert was trying to be seductive but rapidly launching into the realm of the predatory. Could… could he fight off the man? The backs of Matt's knees hit the bed and he stumbled, trying to stay upright.

Gilbert caught the fumble in Matt's balance and suddenly all bets were off; all he saw was vulnerability, trembling and alluring and he reached forward and pushed Matt onto the bed, strong legs straddling his hips. Matt let out a soft cry that was muffled as lips crushed against his, hard and vicious and he gasped, trying to struggle but he was held too hard, too fast. He kicked and wriggled but all Gilbert did was let out an obscene moan, as if he were enjoying , no, please, I don't want it this way begged Matt, his lips burning as rough hands ripped their way under his sweatshirt. I don't want anyone but Francis.

Francis…

Save me…


	9. Chapter 9

Half an hour after the last bell had rang Francis managed to extricate himself from what was shaping up to be an all-out Cuban-Seychelles war, albeit he had only managed to leave by sneaking out of the classroom when Seychelles began to yank at Estevan's dreadlocks. Those two were destined for eternal love, and he wasn't being sarcastic about that.

He ducked down the hallway, breaking into an almost-jog, not wanting to seem desperate but truly desperate anyway, needing to see Matthieu, even if it was just to get thrown out on his face.

And then he ran into Alfred. Or rather, Alfred ran into him. Barreled into him, actually, hitting him in the gut with a strong shoulder and practically sending Francis to the floor.

"Goddamnit, you jerk!" yelled Alfred, suddenly nose-to-nose with a breathless, gasping Francis. "Stay the fuck away from my brother!"

Francis blinked, not comprehending.

"Your brother? You are Matthieu's twin, yes?" Francis had been vaguely aware that Matt had a twin brother, though this one was not nearly as intriguing as his own _amor._ However, considering that they had never met before, and Francis was rather shocked to be seeing such a violent rage in Alfred's face.

"Yes, you, you fucking dickhead." What a mouth on him.

"I… I think you misunderstand, I never-"

"Never what? Never kissed him? Never broke his heart? Cuz, newsflash, Mr. French dude, you _did_ and Matt has been broken in pieces all weekend and I don't think he even got a lick of sleep and he couldn't come to class today because his head hurt so goddamn much and its all your fault, you worthless piece of-"

"What?" demanded Francis, heart constricting. "Matthieu is-"

"Will you let me finish my sentence?" demanded Alfred, shoving at Francis' shoulders and forcing the man another step backwards. "You kissed him and he thinks that you didn't mean it, that you don't love him, and he sure as hell loves you. I know that you're a freaking man-whore and everything but you shouldn't kiss people if you don't mean it. Especially _my_ brother!"

"Don't mean it?" Francis was shocked. "Non, non, I mean it, I mean it with all my heart." Alfred looked like he was about to shove Francis again, but Francis was too quick, and ducked around the attack, sending Alfred off-balance and giving Francis time to dash down the hall and away before Alfred recovered. The blonde student watched him go, thinking, in satisfaction, that he had scared the Frenchman away and not realizing that Francis was actually heading to Matt's room, to straighten this whole mess out.

Francis ran down the hallway, reaching Matt's room quickly. He slowed to a stop in front of the half-open door, feeling uneasy. Why was the door open? He brushed his way inside.


	10. Chapter 10

The next thing that Matt knew, the weight above him was abruptly released and the pressure on his lips ceased. He cracked open his eyes, catching shallow, gasping breaths. The first thing that registered was a familiar shape, standing over Gilbert, who was sprawled on the floor, presumably thrown there.

It was Francis.

Matt let out a strangled sob of relief and fear but Francis did not look at him, just stared down at the German man on the floor with an expression that actually scared Matt more than anything else had; the Frenchman was so angry that Matt thought that his heart would break - no! Francis should not be angry, he should not be anything other than the carefree schemer he had always been. Francis should not be looking so furiously at another person.

"Gilbert," said Francis, his voice cold. "If you touch him again I swear that I will kill you."

Gilbert stared up at his friend, finally beginning to realize exactly what he was doing. "Aw, fuck…"

Francis would find later that maybe the situation was not what he had first thought, that Gilbert had perhaps not realized what he was doing but at this moment all that he felt was pure fury. He looked up at Matt, sprawled on the bed and clutching the front of his sweatshirt and trying so hard to control the terror and fear on his face and Francis _kicked_ Gilbert in the side, catching him a rather vicious blow, then walked over to the bed and grabbed Matt's wrist, stronger and more roughly than he would have liked, dragging the Canadian to his feet and walking swiftly out the door.

"Allons-y," he said quietly, his voice hard, and Matt followed him without a word, letting himself be dragged along as his mind lagged - but Francis had _saved_ him. Francis had come to his rescue and saved him and the look in his eyes was so fiercely protective that Matt was finding his head starting to spin.

They did not speak until they had reached Francis' bedroom, and Francis had bolted the door. Even then, all Francis did was turn and wrap Matthieu tightly in his arms, pressing him hard against his chest and burying his face in his hair. In response, Matt wrapped his arms around Francis' waist and shook, his nose pressed into the hollow of Francis' collarbone, smelling spice and strong mint and sweat.

"F-Francis," breathed Matt, his voice hitching. "Francis…" The arms around him tightened and despite the fear of the past half hour all Matt could think was how deliriously happy he was to be here, in Francis' grip.

Francis only laughed, but it was a sound devoid of mirth or even much of any emotion, a sigh, really.

"I know this is not the time to tell you, Matthieu, but I cannot let you think anything else for another minute. I _love_ you, Matthieu, I _love_ you."

And really, maybe Matt had known it all along.

**Owari ~~~**

**But, there is an Omake. It is decidedly rated M. For a good reason. Interested? I thought so, you perv. Read on!!**


	11. Chapter 11

Francis reached under Matt's chin, drawing his face up so that their lips were a breath apart. The scent of his breath made Matt dizzy, and his lips twitched in anticipation, but he realized that Francis would go no further. He was going to make sure that Matt really wanted it this time.

"Francis, I…." _I'm sorry, I messed up, I can't believe this is - _"I love you, too." And then Matt closed the distance between them.

The kiss was firm, insistent, verging on desperate as Matt realized exactly how much he desired this, how long he had waited for it. His tongue traced the smooth curve of Francis' lower lip and he felt it quirk into a smile as Francis opened his mouth and gave Matthew entrance. Matt took the invitation, but with a slight pause; he had never done this before, ever. He had kissed Katy once, when they were freshmen, but all that had told him was that he did not want that from girls.

So this was uncharted territory.

Francis noted the hesitation and chuckled, deep in the back of his throat; Matt felt the vibrations of the sound. Francis cupped Matt's cheek in one hand, slipping his smooth tongue between parted lips, ghosting over teeth, exploring every inch of Matt's sweet, maple-tainted mouth. Matt reciprocated, clumsily at first, but then with a growing confidence and finally a desperation that left the two gasping for air against each other's cheeks.

Francis let out a startled hiss as Matt's face dropped to his neck, kissing a line across his jaw, down his throat, biting a mark against his neck, then licking the spot, slowly, apologetically. The sensation made Francis shiver. So the boy was a quick learner, was he?

Francis tilted his head for better access, and Matt took the hint, nipping Francis' neck, surprised at his own boldness but somehow intoxicated by the sounds that Francis was making in response to his attentions. But Francis had decided that he would not be outdone, and slid his palms down Matt's sides, then _up_, under his sweatshirt and tee, feeling the shiver of warm fingers against sweat-sheened skin. Francis laughed again, and Matt found that he loved the sound. But then the Canadian let out a gasp as Francis rubbed his thumb against Matt's nipples.

"Francis…" Matt moaned, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the desire in his voice. Francis cocked his head, listening, but did not stop the lazy circles that his fingers were making around Matt's chest. "Francis, please, t-touch me."

"My pleasure," the Frenchman returned, slipping the hand not fondling Matt's nipples down the smooth plane of his stomach, into the waistband of his jeans, under his boxers, and _squeezed_ Matt's half-hard member.

Matt let out an undignified whine through his nose and his legs trembled at the sudden onslaught of pleasure. Francis smiled and began to stroke along Matt's length, talented fingers causing Matt's mind to go utterly blank. But then the hands suddenly withdrew, and Matt's half-lidded eyes fluttered open, not understanding. He found himself staring into Francis' suddenly serious blue eyes.

"M-Matthieu." The Frenchman's voice wavered. Matt's eyes opened wider in shock. Francis was stuttering? Was he worried?

"Matthieu, are… are you sure that you want this?"

Was Francis afraid of being rejected?

Matt, on the other hand, knew the answer to the question, and knew it without a doubt. So he put his hand on Francis' chest and pushed him down onto the bed.

"I'm sure," and kissed the breath out of him.

As Matthew kissed him, Francis' hands began to move again, this time to the buttons of his own shirt, swiftly unhooking them and divesting himself of the constricting clothing. He broke the passionate kiss only long enough to shift Matt's clothing over his head, letting it drop somewhere outside the immediate sphere of "us" and "this" and "now". Both let out a gasp as bare chests touched, a sensation that Matt had been dreamed about for so long that now that the warmth was _real_ and _soft_ and _here_, it felt right. And he wanted more, more contact. He wanted…

And Francis _knew_, of course he knew, because he was overcome with the same desire for contact and the wish to be closer than they had ever thought possible, and he pulled at Matt's half-open jeans.

"Enleve tes pantalons," ordered Francis, and Matt sat back to obey. Francis shrugged out of his own dress slacks as well and then they were facing each other, both kneeling on the bed, both bare and able to see each other, all of each other, for the first time.

Matt's eyes traced the lines of Francis' arched neck, blending with collarbone, shoulder; down the smooth muscle of his chest, his stomach, further down, to Francis' cock, and he felt his cheeks color, feeling exposed and inadequate. He was painfully aware how, unlike on Francis' mature, smooth-planed body, he still retained traces of baby fat, traces of adolescence.

"Matthieu…" whispered Francis, and Matt's blush sank deeper at dark tone of silky reverence in his voice. Francis pressed his lips against Matt's ear, even as he pulled the young man into his lap. "T'es beau." His hands slipped across the Canadian's pale, bare thighs, then behind to his ass.

"F-Francis!"

The young Canadian let out a whine as one of Francis' fingers slipped inside him.

"Je suis desole," the man breathed, sounding mollified and withdrawing. "Do you want me to stop?"

It hurt. It hurt badly, but suddenly… suddenly, the feeling of warmth, of being filled by another, someone whom he had loved for so long - that feeling made Matt's heart race and his breathing quicken and he wanted the pressure back, but in and of itself Matt realized that it was _not enough_. He wanted more, more, he wanted Francis' straining hardness, which brushed against his and caused his hips to thrust against the other's, he wanted it _inside him_.

"Don't… stop. Please. I …need you."

And Francis smiled, a smile that was mixed with love and adoration and a predatory lust as he reached somewhere beside him, opening a drawer in the table beside the bed and returning with a container of lube. He spread it thickly across his fingers and thrust two back inside Matt. Matthew's back arched, but he was ready for the feeling this time, and even as he let out small moan, he realized it felt very, very good, because Francis' fingers were so close and _there_.

"Aaanh!" moaned Matt as the tight bundle of nerves was stroked inside of him and he was unprepared for the sensation of heat and fire that blossomed in his abdomen. He ground his hips harder into Francis' and the man groaned appreciatively, then withdrew his fingers for a second time. Matt whimpered at the loss of friction, but the sound turned into a gasp he felt Francis cock rest against his entrance.

Before he could slide it in, however, he felt Francis' unstained fingers grip his chin, turning it so that their blue eyes were reflected in the light of the other's. "Matthieu, I want to tell you… I have waited a very long time for this… I want to make sure that you knew that. I love you. Je t'aime. "

And then he slid himself inside.

The pain was worse, this time, but it was accompanied with a burning heat, a sweet friction that caused both to moan with the contact and intensity of this closeness. And then, guided by Francis' gentle hands, Matt's hips began to move, sliding up, up Francis' hardness, then back down, then up and then down again with a deeper intensity as he began to lose the sense of pain in a greater arousal and desperation and Francis seemed to be effected just as intensely, murmuring Matt's name into his neck as they moved together, faster, harder, _harder_ and Matt could no longer understand anything but the warmth and pleasure and feel of Francis and as the man's fingers reached out to stroke Matt's neglected erection he could not take it any longer and climaxed with a breathy moan. Francis _grinned_, damn, he grinned with a feral arousal that made Matt's head spin as his body shuddered, riding out his orgasm, and it was the vibration and the tightness that caused Francis' to climax in return, the moan of "_Matthieu_" on his lips as he came inside of him.

And it was a breathless minute before Matthew could bring himself to move from his slumped position against Francis' shoulder, sliding off of the man and lying next to him on the bed, his breathing still erratic and face flushed and glistening. Francis turned to face him, licking a trickle of sweat from his temple and then kissing Matt's lips.

"I have waited for this, too…" murmured Matt. "For so long." His eyelids fluttered; he was unprepared for the feeling of sated sleepiness that was beginning to assail him. He tried to stay awake and focus on his lover's glowing face, but the battle was being swiftly lost.

In response, Francis simply wrapped his arms around his body, drawing him in close against his chest.

"Sleep, mon Matthieu. I will be here in the morning."

Matt trusted in that.


End file.
